fools
by skyestiel
Summary: "Kuramochi is supposed to be a delinquent. He's supposed to be a rival, to be the kind of unpleasant person Kazuya can't stand to be around for more than an hour at a time. He's supposed to be spiteful and mean and foul-mouthed and, by no means whatsoever, is his appearance allowed to contradict his true character..." (tags in the a/n)


**tags:** canon divergence, first kiss, confessions, sleepovers, but impromptu ones, minimal baseball, kuramochi and miyuki have a lot of feelings but words are hard, save them, also there are video games, and lots of banter, fluff, humor, or at least attempted humor, summaries are tough

 **A/N:** so... this is my first daiya fic ever? and, consequently, my first kuramiyu fic. they're probably a bit ooc, and I apologize in advance for that. the idea came from a prompt on tumblr I found a while ago. it seemed interesting and, since I wanted to try my hand at daiya, I decided to give it a go with kuramiyu. oh, and the title comes from the song, "fools" by lauren aquilina. DEFINITELY look it up!

anyway I hope everyone enjoys. I decided to crosspost this from ao3 (as usual) so you can also find it there. the ao3 tag needs more fics, especially kuramiyu so [gestures at this thing] here you go

* * *

Kazuya stares blankly at the notebook page sitting on his desk.

The words, glaring red and written in his familiar scrawl, are there and completely legible, but he can't seem to make sense of them. Namely the deadline, written a little smaller underneath the assignment title.

 _biology project; marine life specific to the Atlantic Ocean; 4 page paper and presentation_

 _due next Wednesday_

He blinks, but the words don't disappear. Getting a bit frantic, he reaches for the calendar on his wall. There's no way, absolutely no way, that tomorrow is the "next Wednesday" he referred to. But, after a thorough scan of this month's schedule, he finds that, yes. Yes, it most definitely _is_ the date in question.

How long has that been a thing? He vaguely recalls writing it. The first week of class and already, their professor decided to bore them to tears. For what felt like hours, he rattled on about whales and dolphins and the state of the marine ecosystem along the North and South American coastline.

Kazuya felt himself drifting off right as Kuramochi, a classmate he'd only just met recently at baseball practice, leaned over, whispering, "Hey."

He remained silent and, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, started fiddling with his pencil.

"Hey. Hey, dickbag."

Kazuya's fingers tightened, and his body tensed up.

"Hey, don't fall asleep. I can see your eyes drooping, dumbass."

What was his deal? At practice, the two constantly bickered and disagreed and just plain didn't get along. But, hoping to secure positions on the team, they never progressed past a couple perfectly timed insults exchanged here and there between drills. As much as he wanted to slug him in the face, just to shut him up, getting physical was absolutely out of the question. Kazuya wasn't a troublemaker. He didn't want to cause any problems and, aiming for the first-string catcher position, he could care less about some petty dispute with a loud-mouthed teammate. He had bigger fish to fry.

"Hey-"

"What do you want?" Kazuya snapped. His patience was wearing thin. "We're in the middle of-"

"Mikyuki-kun!"

Apparently, he'd spoken too loudly. There went his hopes of not being singled out.

"Yes, Sensei?"

"I hate to interrupt your conversation with Kuramochi-kun, but you're disrupting my class." He looked positively livid, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face due to the unreliable air conditioning. "And, as much as I hate to do it, I'll have to make an example out of you."

Kazuya isn't an idiot; he knows their professor doesn't hate doing it. He knows he has no issue with embarrassing Kazuya or torturing students.

"Since you two seem to have far more important issues to discuss, I think I'll assign a project to ensure that you understand the information I've covered this period," he explained with the kind of grim smile best suited to his long, skeletal face. "Yes, let's go with a four page essay and short presentation, all on today's subject matter."

Everyone in the room groaned. Except for Kuramochi who snickered under his breath like a hyena. He was either in denial or just didn't give a damn; Kazuya didn't know which possibility he found more troubling. He leered at Kuramochi out of the corner of his eye, silently pleading for him to stop, but he carried on regardless.

"Oh, and I almost forgot. Since Kuramochi-kun appears to find this situation _funny_ , I'm going to pair everyone up for this assignment. You two-" he gestured between Kazuya and Kuramochi- "will be partners."

Kuramochi's jaw immediately snapped shut.

Kazuya wanted to smack him upside the head for being rude and disruptive. He hadn't known Kuramochi for long, but, clearly, he didn't make a habit of brown nosing or kissing up to teachers. It's weird, though, and only confused Kazuya further because he never acted that way around their baseball coach.

Quite the opposite actually. He patiently awaited each order and scampered around the field like an obedient and determined puppy, wagging his tail and barking excitedly along with his teammates. Well, everyone except for Kazuya. The glares, the just short of painful jabs, the spontaneous headlocks, the offhand comments about Kazuya's over inflated ego- he still doesn't know what to make of it all.

So the prospect of being stuck as his partner… on a school project, no less, didn't exactly thrill him.

Frustrated, Kazuya lets his head sink until his face is pressed into the notebook paper. He feels like a complete idiot. It's bad enough that, at the time, he let Kuramochi get to him in, but to forget about the presentation altogether?

"Stupid, _stupid_ ," he mumbles angrily to himself, mushing his lips against the page. The ink tastes nasty, stale, just like failure.

He'll sound like a jackass for saying this (he kind of is) and would probably hurt Kuramochi's feelings if he ever said it to his face (it wouldn't be the first time), but Kuramochi's carelessness comes as no big shock. As a player, he's a hard worker, but, as a student, he's not nearly as motivated. School and sports are on completely different planes in his mind. Kazuya, although not the perfect student, has always tried to be proficient in both aspects.

From what he's observed at practice, it's obvious that Kuramochi wants to improve, which probably explains his decision to make Kazuya his unofficial enemy. Although he's aiming for the catcher position and Kuramochi clearly wants to be the shortstop, they're both first years hoping to gain a spot on the first-string and that's enough to spark the competition between them.

A heavy sigh wrenches its way out of Kazuya's throat, and he flips the notebook shut. Staring at the words won't change anything. The essay won't magically write itself. And Kuramochi won't materialize out of thin air, ready to get down to business.

Except that he does.

He actually _does_.

The loud, echoing clamor of Kazuya's dorm room door flying open almost sends him toppling off his desk chair. Of course Kuramochi likes to make grand entrances. And of course he has no problem busting into Kazuya's room uninvited at this time of night.

"Miyuki!" he hollers by way of greeting and, wasting no time, bounds in Kazuya's direction.

Kuramochi launches himself through the air in an admittedly impressive display of acrobatics and is on Kazuya in seconds. Panting, heaving, and surprisingly sweaty, he grabs the collar of Kazuya's t-shirt and yanks him up so there's only a scant two or three inches between their faces. Kazuya doesn't have a wide personal space or anything, but it's uncomfortable being this close to a guy he barely knows. He hasn't even decided how he feels about him yet. The furthest he's come is deciding the baseman's secretly a wildcat trapped in a human body. Or maybe a natural disaster is more fitting, like a typhoon or tsunami.

"You bastard! You never reminded me about the goddamned project," he growls. Kazuya tries not to wince when spit lands on his face. "And it's due _tomorrow_."

Okay, well.

He has a point. Kazuya's not sure why he didn't mention it sooner. Practice would've been the perfect opportunity to casually address it, but, of course, that only held true if he had remembered the project to begin with. Which he hadn't.

"Kura-kun, Kura-kun," he coos in his trademark patronizing tone, "It'll be fine. I was going to say something at practice the other day-"

"It's _Kuramochi_! And don't bullshit me. You totally forgot about it, didn't you?"

"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't." Kazuya shrugs. "We still have the rest of the night and tomorrow morning to finish. No need to panic."

Grudgingly, Kuramochi loosens his hold on Kazuya's shirt. He leans away and gives the other space, huffing out a resigned sigh and sinking to the ground. Like a sleepy jungle cat, he languidly slinks across the floor and over to the open space near Kazuya's bed. He finds a comfortable enough spot and lies flat on his stomach with his head pillowed on his crossed arms. "Due _tomorrow_ ," he grumbles, words muffled, and peeks up at Kazuya.

"We have enough time if we start now. Four pages shouldn't take long since I'm here," Kazuya explains, turning in his chair to face Kuramochi. He crosses his legs and leans back a bit, grinning impishly at his partner. "It should take us two, three hours at the most. If you're willing to put in the work, that is."

"There you go again with that damned ego of yours. Since 'I'm here.' I guess you're a regular genius on _and_ off the field, huh?" Kuramochi's lip curls in disgust as he speaks.

"I guess you could say that."

"You're an asshole. How can you be so cocky?"

"Call it what you want, but I get the job done," Kazuya scoffs. People have said pretty much the same thing for years. This isn't news to him.

"It's no wonder you don't have friends."

 _Ah_. That stings. His chest physically aches at the mention, but, strangely enough, he's relieved. Not many people are this frank with him. Most don't even acknowledge his existence other than to sneer and joke about how heartless he is.

"You know what they say. With enemies like this, who needs friends?"

"That's not how the saying goes."

"Might as well. It's the truth."

"No," Kuramochi snarls, surprisingly adamant. "No. That's not true at all. Friends, teammates- they're there even when everyone else turns their backs on you. Or at least they're supposed to be."

"Speaking from experience?" Kazuya's words are meant to get a rise out of Kuramochi. He smells a good story, rich with anguish and heartache, lurking behind those wild eyes.

"None of your damn business," Kuramochi retorts, glaring openly at Kazuya.

"I mean, outside of the team, I don't see people flocking to you either, Mochi-kun."

" _Don't_ call me that." Kuramochi bares his teeth, looking eerily similar to the feral creature Kazuya has come to associate him with. "And like I said before, bastard, you have no room to talk."

"I never said that I did. Unlike you, I embrace my douchebag tendencies. I don't need-" he makes air quotes with his fingers, histrionic and exaggerated motions- "'friends.' From my experience, it's almost impossible to find trustworthy people anymore. People that'll be there when others turn their backs on you? Not likely."

Kuramochi's eyebrows crawl up his forehead, and Kazuya smirks. "Besides, this project is a lot more important than my lack of a social life." Kazuya taps the notebook to emphasize his point, and Kuramochi just stares at him unabashedly.

Is that... pity?

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Looking at me like I'm a charity case," Kazuya deadpans, satisfied with the flush coloring Kuramochi's cheeks.

"Shut up! Like I'd ever think of you as a charity case," he grumbles. He's back to burying his face in his shirt sleeves, legs kicking up behind him. They're fighting and yet there's a comfortable sort of atmosphere hanging over the room. "Charity cases don't talk big or prance around the baseball diamond like a fucking peacock. People usually want to help them out. Because they like them."

"Aw, Mochi-kun-"

"That's not my name!"

"-you're too sweet-"

"It wasn't meant to be sweet!"

"-but do you really hate me that much?"

Kuramochi's face turns an even brighter shade of red, if at all possible, and it's sort of cute watching his mouth open and close like a fish out of water. "You haven't done anything to make me hate you. I'm not a complete asshole, like _some_ people in this room, so I won't sit back and say I do without a good reason. But..."

"But?"

He hesitates. "But... it's hard not to be pissed off around a big shot like you. Talented players, whether they're actually star quality or just blowing smoke out their ass, can come off as egotistical. You know, walking around like they're God's gift to baseball. A lot of those jerks treat their competition like fucking trash."

"So I'm a little confused. Am I 'star quality' or 'just blowing smoke out of my ass'?"

" _That's_ all you took from that?"

"Seems awfully important to me. Otherwise this whole conversation is a waste of time."

"God, you really just don't give a shit what people think about you, huh?" Kuramochi heaves a gigantic sigh. "You're a pretty damn good catcher. Even if you have some serious control issues."

Kazuya is speechless. No witty retort comes to mind, and his throat goes dry, drier than the mound on the hottest summer day. The bity insult, mumbled hurriedly at the end, nearly distracts him from the rest of Kuramochi's rant. Did he just...

"Thanks for the compliment," Kazuya chirps, and, just as he'd hoped, Kuramochi fires curses and half-hearted slander his way, gradually hiding more and more of his pink cheeks and scrunched nose in embarrassment.

Kazuya snatches the notebook along with a couple pens (since Kuramochi obviously came empty-handed) and his biology textbook. With his roommate gone until morning, they should easily be able to spread out and work to their hearts content for the rest of the evening. He tosses everything except for the textbook down next to Kuramochi and sinks to the floor.

Not once does Kuramochi take his eyes off of him. Wide and attentive, they track his movement like a predator stalking its prey. The intensity is a bit unnerving, to say the least, and Kazuya wonders what he's watching for. Maybe the guy really is a cheetah, and he's waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

 _Scary_.

Kazuya decides that maybe Kuramochi has the right idea and flops down onto his stomach, making the most of the open space. The materials serve as the only barriers between he and Kuramochi's bodies, which should- _should_ \- keep them from killing each other. At least for the next couple hours. Kazuya's fingers play idly with the flimsy notebook cover before flipping to a blank page.

"Alright. Since you-"

"Wait, wait," Kuramochi interjects. Confused, Kazuya raises his head and watches in awe as Kuramochi shifts back onto his knees and withdraws a tiny notepad- _from inside his pants._

Kazuya doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. But once his mouth drops and laughter bubbles out, he surrenders to it, reveling in the light feeling that starts in his chest and slowly consumes him. It's been so long since he's laughed like _this_. He rolls onto his back, eyes squeezed shut, and clutches desperately at his stomach as the force of unbridled laughter racks his body. Who does that? The booklet is certainly small enough to fit comfortably in Kuramochi's sweatpants but carrying it by _hand_ seems like the more reasonable and definitely more hygienic option.

"What?" Kuramochi growls through gritted teeth. He shoves the notepad in Kazuya's face and, suddenly, his vision is eclipsed by Kuramochi's scowl and lithe upper body. Kazuya quickly jerks his head out of the way. "Bet you didn't expect me to come prepared, huh?"

"Geez, don't stick that thing in my face," Kazuya pleads, "Not when it just spent an extended period of time in _there_." His eyes flit to Kuramochi's pants.

"This little buddy should feel honored." Kuramochi grins, smug as can be, and pulls away, sitting with his legs crossed. "And, for your information, I took notes in here, jackass."

 _Notes...?_

Kazuya's hysteria dies down in an instant. He quickly sits up, mirroring Kuramochi, and points an accusing finger at the booklet. "I thought you said you forgot about it?"

"I mean, I did, but I got so angry with you the day he assigned it that I just sort of... starting taking notes." Kuramochi's gaze settles on the tiny notebook in his lap. "That way, I thought I could finish up without having to work with you at all. But the next morning, I calmed down a little bit and everything went back to normal so I guess that's how I... forgot."

Well.

As much as Kazuya hates to admit it, he's starting to like Kuramochi more and more with every passing minute. It's crazy, and, in the back of his mind, he knows the truth, especially coming from Kuramochi, should hurt more than it does. But he's used to backstabbers and peers with nasty intentions, used to underhanded means of sabotage, whispered rumors and fiery glares. The honestly is incredibly refreshing. Kuramochi could care less whether or not he's hurting someone's feelings or making enemies. His brain-to-mouth filter seems broken, like someone forgot to conduct repairs that should've been fixed years ago. It reminds Kazuya of his own skewed personality and questionable moral compass.

For a groundbreaking second time in the same night, Kazuya laughs.

He feels a little sorry for Kuramochi. Several emotions cross the poor guy's face in the short span of only a couple seconds, ranging from fear to concern to outright confusion.

"Are you okay? Did you finally crack? Fuck, please don't kill me." Kuramochi scoots away, sounding vaguely terrified. "I know I always give you hell, and I'd totally win in a fight but-"

"You're an interesting guy, you know that?"

Kuramochi's blinks a few times in rapid succession and glares in Kazuya's direction, an uncertain kind of glare. The expression is sort of endearing, especially on the face of a former delinquent- if he can even be called that. Kazuya doesn't know the full story, but he's well aware of the numerous street fights he got into in the past. A few upperclassmen were gossiping about it the other day, and Kazuya couldn't help but eavesdrop as he passed.

Suddenly, it dawns on him: now would be the perfect time to get the full scoop on the mysterious shortstop.

"S-shut up! That's a weird thing to say," Kuramochi finally manages to splutter.

"Not necessarily." Kazuya pushes the textbook closer to Kuramochi and grabs his notebook. "Now, let's get to work. You look for more information in here-" he taps the bulking book's cover- "while I start writing the actual essay. Chapters 10 through 12 all deal with marine life so that's probably the best place to look first. Sound good?"

"Why do _you_ get to write the paper?"

"Do you even need to ask?"

"Your personality is the worst."

"I never said that it wasn't."

Kuramochi clicks his tongue. " _Serious_ control issues." Glaring at the textbook like it's the greatest source of his suffering, he flips open his notepad. True to his word, the first page is filled with messy chicken scratch. He's casually perusing through it at his leisure, and Kazuya notices that he's already taken several pages of notes. Not just a single sheet- _pages._

 _"_ Never would've pegged you for a nerd," Kazuya comments, mostly because he loves seeing Kuramochi morph into a giant human tomato.

"Look who's talking! Do you want a fight or what?"

"Fighting you isn't worth my time," Kazuya scoffs. "Besides, I won't take my chances with a thug. They usually fight dirty, and the last thing I need is to get hurt. An injury would ruin everything I've worked for."

"Thug, huh? You barely know me."

"I know enough."

"You don't know _shit_." Kuramochi practically spits the last word as if the retort leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

"Oh? Then please enlighten me."

"Huh?"

"Why do they call you a 'thug'? Did you sit on the corner with a cigarette dangling from your lips, lighter tucked in your pocket, looking all cool and edgy? Or was it something worse like drugs?"

"As if I'd ever do that! My buddies liked to smoke sometimes, but I made sure it was never around me," Kuramochi answers and, somehow, Kazuya can tell it's the truth. Not many boys their age would lie about rejecting a smoke, what with the risk of sullying their precious masculinity.

"And the fighting?"

Kuramochi tenses. Guilt, plain as day, flashes in his eyes. "You don't understand..."

Red fills Kazuya's vision, and he tries to relax, hoping to ignore the anger simmering beneath his skin. _He doesn't know. Calm down, he doesn't know._

"I knew it. Who were they? Innocent people? Other delinquents like you?" And, like a train hurtling down the tracks, his thoughts run rampant. There are no brakes, no chances of shoving the words back down his throat before they surface. "Or maybe your teammates?"

 _Shit_. _Good job, Kazuya_.

He bites down on his tongue, teeth digging painfully into flesh, almost hard enough to draw blood. This isn't how this game works. Just because Kuramochi knows little to nothing about Kazuya doesn't mean he should change that.

"Of course not." Kuramochi eyes Kazuya suspiciously. "I only dealt with the bastards that were stupid enough to mess with my friends. They had it coming. What the hell kind of question is that anyway? Why would I ever fight my own teammates?"

Kazuya wishes he could give a concrete answer. _Because they're cocky and egotistical, just like you said. Because they're smaller and seem weaker and you want to grind them into the ground until any thoughts of being better, any hopes and dreams of improving, are long gone._

Apparently, his silence is enough.

"Oh."

Palpable tension hangs in the air, charged with Kazuya's unspoken admission and the finality of Kuramochi's whispered "oh." Kazuya sees the gears turning in Kuramochi's head, watches him twiddle with the pages of his little notepad, rubbing the paper between his thumbs. He looks lost, stranded, out of place, sitting across a classmate and teammate he's only just met, a person he'll likely play alongside for the next two or three years.

"Miyuki?"

Hesitantly, Kazuya lifts his gaze to meet Kuramochi's.

"I know you don't like me, which is fine. Not many people do." Kuramochi chuckles, a bitter and broken sound. "And I also know that you're not much of a social butterfly yourself."

"Great pep talk."

"I wasn't finished yet! Anyway, we're both pretty shitty people. No friends, no girls falling head over heels for us. But, no matter how much of an ass I can be and no matter how much of an ass _you_ can be, I promise you this." He pauses. "I don't tolerate brats fucking with my teammates. _Any_ of my teammates. That includes you."

 _Oh no._

 _No. No._

Kuramochi is supposed to be a delinquent. He's supposed to be a rival, to be the kind of unpleasant person Kazuya can't stand to be around for more than an hour at a time. He's supposed to be spiteful and mean and foul-mouthed and, by no means whatsoever, is his appearance allowed to contradict his true character. A carefully concealed heart of gold goes against every single one of Kazuya's preconceived notions about Kuramochi.

 _He's more than just an 'interesting guy.'_

Kazuya wants- _needs_ \- to uphold his superficial public image. This is usually the moment he'd offer a sarcastic remark in return, when he'd brush off the sentiment like an annoying house fly. He'd tease Kuramochi for his sentimentality and immediately switch topics, retreating to safer territory. Instead, he says nothing.

He doesn't need friends. He doesn't need anyone to look out for or protect him. Even the kindest, the most loving and compassionate people, fall victim to betrayal. A saying instantly comes to mind, one of his father's favorites, and he thinks he finally comprehends its meaning.

"Birds of a feather flock together."

Tattered feathers, frayed and barely clinging to misshapen wings- that's what Kazuya's feathers had become. And Kuramochi's were in a similar state of disrepair.

Kazuya doesn't need friends.

But he may need Kuramochi.

* * *

The rest of the evening passes in amicable silence sprinkled with occasional comments as they move from paragraph to paragraph. Once Kazuya adds the finishing touches to the meaty part of the essay, the section packed with information, Kuramochi steals his notebook because, according to him, Kazuya's one hell of a catcher but can't write a decent introduction or conclusion to save his life.

Three hours after starting, and the project is completely finished. Kuramochi proudly proclaims they have his notes to thank for their efficiency to which Kazuya immediately quips, "It would've taken me only two hours on my own."

Kuramochi, of course, digs his knee into the other's backside and resumes his earlier tirade about brash players and heartless catchers.

Sleeping arrangements don't take long to sort out. Kazuya takes his bed, the bottom bunk, while Kuramochi takes the top, tossing and turning before eventually huffing and going silent. Kazuya gets in one last dig before they fall asleep, offering Kuramochi a shirt to sleep in so that he can pretend he's a decent player, even if it's only for one night, which earns him a pillow to the face.

Kazuya definitely deserves it.

The next day, by some miracle, he and Kuramochi manage to present without any major disruptions. Their professor accepts the paper and reluctantly praises them on their oral presentation. He even goes so far as to mention Kuramochi's hidden talent for public speaking. This earns one of his uproarious cackles, but Kazuya catches the pleasant surprise that flashes in his eyes, the genuine upturn of his lips even as his laughter fades.

Although the project is finished and there's no longer any need to get along, they talk more often than they had in the past. The constant hostility on the field subsides- to a certain extent- and Kuramochi's insults take on a more playful quality. To anyone else, nothing probably seems amiss, but Kazuya senses the subtle difference in tone, the way the remarks roll off Kuramochi's tongue, teasing, a hint of fondness, instead of being growled through gritted teeth.

They don't get together outside of practice and, for the next two months at least, avoid having to pull any additional all-nighters. Having formed a sort of unspoken truce, they stop going out of their way to avoid each other. As a matter of fact, Kuramochi switches to the seat in front of Kazuya, insisting that window seats are better because they're as close to the outside world as he can get, and occasionally turns to speak to him during class.

Kazuya doesn't know how Kuramochi feels, but he refuses to acknowledge their relationship as anything more than purely teammates. The title of "friends", the actual word itself, resides in the back of his throat, lodged snugly between every other phrase Kazuya refuses to voice out loud.

They're not friends.

* * *

Never in a million years does Kazuya think it'll happen again.

But, for some reason, it does.

The second time is, yet again, Kuramochi's fault. Their professor fumes and pouts and nearly stomps his foot like a cantankerous child. He assigns another essay (minus the presentation) due the following week. And, to worsen the punishment, partners the two together. Again.

They repeat their previous mistakes and, somehow, manage to forget the deadline. Baseball fills almost every waking hour, other than actual class time, and they find themselves caught up in the thrill of competition. Too caught up to acknowledge one measly paper.

Another all-nighter is in order, much to Kazuya's chagrin, and Kuramochi comes bustling into Kazuya's room like a bull in a China shop. Thankfully, he spares his notepad this time around, clutching it in his sweaty palms instead of trapping it beside a certain body part Kazuya would rather not think about.

Strangely enough, they have full-fledged conversations and rarely go more than five minutes without talking. Kazuya brings up the dedication baseball requires and steers the discussion towards hobbies. Mostly because he can't have Kuramochi thinking he's any less of an asshole than he's made himself out to be. It gives him the chance to, smug as ever, brag about his prowess in the kitchen.

"I have hobbies, too," Kuramochi huffs, lips pursed in the closest thing to a pout Kazuya has ever seen on his face.

"Oh?"

"Yes, you jackass."

"Well, that's nice. Are any of them legal?"

Kuramochi launches his pen directly at Kazuya's forehead and chortles like a maniac at the resulting cry of pain.

The conversation moves on to favorite sports figures and, with Kazuya's prompting, favorite foods. Kuramochi insists that Kazuya cook dinner for the team one night, maybe after their next game, but he shoots him down without batting an eye. He doesn't explain his actual reason for refusing the offer, that he's only ever made meals for himself and his father, but Kuramochi refrains from pressing for more information. Kazuya's terrified by the pleasant warmth that settles in his bones and even more terrified by Kuramochi's conscientious behavior and insightfulness.

By the end of the night, after a considerable amount of pushing and prodding, Kazuya agrees to try one of Kuramochi's "stupid video games" sometime in the near future. He's vague about the specifics because, honestly, he doesn't plan on entering this room again without a legitimate reason. Which really only includes these spur-of-the-moment projects.

Weary and exhausted from research and writing, they drag their bodies into bed around midnight, and sleep claims them quickly and quietly.

The following day, Kuramochi excitedly slips the essay on to their professor's desk. He won't stop talking about how he wrote larger chunks of the essay so Kazuya decides letting him hand in their work may be the only way to shut him up for the rest of the day. Practice would be miserable otherwise.

They receive a solid 84 percent- a higher score than previously- and Kuramochi can barely contain his excitement.

"Don't let this go to your head, Kuramochi."

"That's rich coming from you," Kuramochi mutters drily.

He doesn't even notice that, for the first time, Kazuya referred to him by name.

* * *

When it happens the fourth time, their first year of high school is almost over.

Kuramochi blatantly, in the most conspicuous way imaginable, tosses a crumpled paper note at Kazuya's nose. He isn't expecting it and lets out an embarrassingly loud squeak. A _totally_ manly squeak, thank you very much.

The punishment: six pages, written, on any topic of choice related to feudal Japan.

"That didn't take half as long as the other one," Kuramochi remarks. They've migrated from Kazuya's dorm to Kuramochi's for this assignment, mainly because the whole video game issue has yet to be dropped. Kuramochi is a devout gamer- _shocker_ \- and makes every progressive level and melee brawl look effortless. His fingers fly across the controller, expertly pressing buttons at precisely the right moments, tongue poking out from between pursed lips, laser focused. Even Kazuya acknowledges his impressive reflexes.

"Probably because we both remembered this time. Speaking of which, why did we wait to write it until the night before if we both spent all week doing research? Seems counterproductive," Kazuya speculates and curses softly under his breath as his avatar takes a hit to the stomach.

"Baseball."

"Baseball? That's no excuse."

"Why not?" Kuramochi snaps.

"If we had time to _research_ , why not start writing, too?" Kazuya winces as a wayward elbow accidentally (or maybe not so accidentally) jabs into his side. "Watch it, idiot! That hurt."

"I'm not an idiot! I'm just as smart as you," Kuramochi replies smugly. "And research is different. To be honest, it can be sort of fun. Going down to the library or looking shit up on the internet, something other than fucking baseball 24/7. Besides... well, never mind."

Kazuya's avatar falls off the edge of a cliff and into the ocean tens of feet below. Obnoxious music blares to commemorate his character's untimely death.

"Besides?"

"Nothing."

"Kuramochi," Kazuya whines, pleading. He rarely pleads, and Kuramochi knows that.

"Fine. God, you're a pain in the ass. If you wanna know the truth, it's a lot easier when we write it together."

... _Together_.

"So you're basically using me because you can't do it on your own? To get a passing grade? Figures."

"No! You're so annoying." Kuramochi drops his controller, player select page still onscreen. He drags his fingers through his hair. "It's just that sometimes I don't know what to write, and sometimes you don't know what to write- yes, I've noticed, don't give me that fucking look- so it's better if we get together and, you know... take turns. To get it done faster."

Kazuya wishes Kuramochi would stop doing this. Stupefied silence doesn't suit Kazuya well.

Unfortunately, he never comes up with a proper response. Kuramochi goes back to bitching at the television screen as if nothing happened and doesn't force anything out of his speechless guest. They play for another hour ("I knew a guy like you would suck at video games, fucking all-star catcher") before their eyelids begin to droop.

Too tired to climb into the top bunk, Kazuya flops on to the bottom one. The soft cotton feels nice on his bare calves and arms, and the pillow seems, if at all possible, fluffier than his own. He exhales loudly and sinks further into the mattress.

"H-hey, what the hell?"

Kazuya cracks a single eye open and grins. "It's bed time. I need my beauty sleep."

"Fucking beauty sle- you're in _my_ bed!"

"You expect me to climb all the way up there? Please, Kuramochi, I'm tired. You're always full of energy so you should have no problem." Kazuya waits. He waits and watches Kuramochi intently, wondering how he'll react to his challenge, whether or not he'll take the bait.

He expects to he shoved forcefully on to the floor. He expects a slew of curse words. But that's not what he gets.

Kuramochi does exactly what Kazuya _never_ expected him to do.

Grumbling, rubbing at his eyes, he trudges over to the bunk and, without meeting Kazuya's inquisitive stare, starts pulling back the covers. Kazuya is fine, a bit anxious but mostly unconcerned, until Kuramochi moves to join him- in the same bed.

"I can't believe you're trying to take my fucking bed," Kuramochi sighs, and Kazuya looks on in stunned silence as Kuramochi tucks his lower body under the covers.

Terrified, Kazuya moves closer to the wall, putting as much space between him and Kuramochi as humanly possible. He feels too hot, boxed in, like the bed has suddenly shrunk to a quarter of its original size.

"Kuramochi?" he croaks because it's all he can manage.

"Just go to sleep. Don't make this weird," Kuramochi mumbles, trying to find a comfortable position.

"But it is. _Totally_ weird."

"No it's not!" Kazuya can only imagine how red Kuramochi's cheeks are. "I had to do this a couple times back at home when my friends spent the night. My old man only had two extra futons lying around so some of us had to share. But we're both guys so it's not a big deal. Just... I'm fucking exhausted so don't worry about it and _go the fuck to sleep_."

His shoulder blades shift, back muscles working as he settles on his side, and Kazuya can see every flex, tracks each minute movement. The shirt doesn't leave much to the imagination. Kazuya's gaze drifts from the flat expanse between his shoulders, up to the exposed skin peeking over his collar, and finally comes to rest on the tiny hairs at the nape of Kuramochi's neck. The light from the desk lamp illuminates his figure, and, distantly, Kazuya wonders if his hair feels as soft as it appears.

That's the last thought he has before the comfortable warmth of shared body heat lulls him to sleep.

* * *

Morning comes all too soon.

Kazuya hands the essay in, insisting that it's only right since Kuramochi did the honors last time. Their professor says nothing as he accepts it, silently flipping through the pages while the other students trickle into the room. It isn't until after class that he addresses them, commanding both Kuramochi and Kazuya to stay for a few extra minutes.

"Are you doing this on purpose?"

A brief silence hangs in the empty classroom. It's the last thing either of them expects to hear and, caught off guard, both burst into hysterical laughter. Kazuya's chuckles are subdued and pale in comparison to Kuramochi's. He clutches desperately at Kazuya's shirt sleeve, using the hold to maintain his balance, and buries his face in the other's shoulder as he cackles like an insane asylum escapee.

"Good one, Sensei," Kazuya guffaws, but their professor isn't amused.

"I'm serious. These essays are fantastic, much better than your individual work." He turns to Kuramochi. "Especially yours, Kuramochi-kun."

Suddenly, the situation isn't funny anymore. Not at all. Kazuya freezes and swears that his brain short circuits. It's impossible. There's no way in _hell_ his own essays score lower than he and Kuramochi's joint effort disasters. But, thinking back on his recent grades, he recalls that the scores _have_ been better. Numbers don't lie.

"Um... thank you?" Kuramochi is equally confused, but it's not the same as Kazuya's own bewilderment. Unlike Kazuya, he's happy about the news. "Thank you."

"I know you both play baseball so maybe your cohesiveness on the field translates into your school work." A smile tugs at his lips. "You two must make an awfully good team."

 _You two._

 _Cohesiveness on the field._

 _He and Kuramochi… a good team?_

Kazuya's fingers clench into fists at his sides, and his shoulders must tense because Kuramochi removes the arm he'd slung around Kazuya's neck, stepping away.

"Yeah... yeah, I guess so." His tone is far more solemn than before. He glances at Kazuya, concern written in the set of his lips. "I appreciate it, Sensei."

Kazuya finally finds his voice and adopts his best fake- completely _fake_ \- smile. "Yes, thank you, Sensei."

* * *

Their second year of high school ends a mere two weeks after their fifth impromptu group assignment.

A six page paper on the importance of the global economy- the driest and easily most boring topic yet- takes a whopping three and a half hours to finish. Both Kuramochi and Kazuya come prepared with notes and even a thesis statement, but, clearly, their professor meant for it to be the most difficult assignment so far.

Kuramochi complains incessantly throughout the night. Anything and everything is wrong with their professor, and even Kazuya agrees, voicing his own frustration. His vision is becoming progressively blurrier and, after Kuramochi passes out for a strange and impressively short-lived five minutes, he realizes he's not alone.

"He totally hates us," Kuramochi murmurs as he scribbles down the last sentence.

"Yeah… yeah, I think you're right."

"Wow, the great Miyuki Kazuya is actually agreeing with me?"

Kazuya scoffs. "Enjoy it while it lasts. It won't happen again."

Once finished, they crawl across the floor and, without standing, squeeze into the bottom bunk. Kazuya remains quiet when Kuramochi decides to join him in the same bed once again.

Any lingering exhaustion from the day pushes to the forefront of his mind. It isn't often that Kazuya falls asleep without first lying in bed for an hour or two, thoughts running in endless circles inside his brain, ruining any hopes of getting a good night's sleep. Tonight is different. Barely fifteen minutes after his head hits the pillow, he conks out.

It's the best sleep he's gotten in months, but there's no way in hell he'll tell Kuramochi that.

Everything's fine and, for the most part, pretty normal until morning comes.

Kazuya blinks, gradually returning to reality. And the reality is… well.

His thoughts grind to an earth-shattering halt.

Only an inch or so away, lips parted in a small "o," Kuramochi's eyelashes flutter. His breath ghosts across Kazuya's face, and, petrified, he takes a quick stock of how they're positioned. He notices the distinct tingling sensation of bare skin brushing against bare skin, fingers skirting slowly over his sides, and the press of a muscular thigh wedged between his legs. Toes brush softly up and down one of his calves, curling and uncurling, the caress clearly unintentional but still pleasant. Everywhere. Kuramochi is _everywhere_. But it's good, so good, because he feels warm and safe and comfortable enough to stay there for the rest of the day if he could.

It's a full sensory assault. Sensory _warfare_.

He feigns sleep, letting Kuramochi deal with the compromising situation they've somehow found themselves in. Ten heart-stopping minutes pass before Kuramochi wakes. Kazuya can't make heads or tails of the foreign itch lingering beneath his heated skin, any of the strange sensations clouding his mind, especially when Kuramochi makes a series of soft, breathy sounds and smacks his lips. He doesn't have an opportunity to really dwell on it, though, because Kuramochi gasps seconds later, equally as shocked by the embarrassingly intimate pile of tangled limbs. Kazuya decides there's no better moment to open his eyes and comes face-to-face with his mortified teammate. Flushed to the tips of his ears, Kuramochi quickly withdraws his fingers from the patch of skin on display near the hem of Kazuya's pants, and, just as flustered, Kazuya removes his hand from its resting place on the small of Kuramochi's back.

They gladly take an 86 percent on the essay and choose not to address their sleeping arrangements from the previous night.

* * *

"You know, I never thought we'd still be doing this as second years."

"How many times is this now? Six? Seven?" Kuramochi comments, nonchalant. He's obviously preoccupied with his game, occasionally blurting a variety of insults ranging from "fucking Kintana" to an angrier "how is this bastard still alive?"

Kazuya is also preoccupied but for a totally unrelated reason. He's too busy skimming through their essay, checking for spelling mistakes, with his head pillowed on Kuramochi's thigh. Of course, the thigh is a far greater distraction than Kuramochi's mediocre grammar skills.

"Nine."

"No way." The distinct sounds of bones crunching and pained cries echo in the background. "It has to be six."

"Unless six has magically become nine overnight," Kazuya drawls, a malicious grin taking shape on his lips, "I'm pretty sure that I'm right. Which means you're wrong. Sorry I have to be the one to break the news to you."

"Cocky bastard!" Kazuya's human pillow shifts and, before he can tug his head away, Kuramochi wraps his arm securely around his tormentor's neck in a choke hold. The grip is tight but not painfully so. "Always acting like I'm the biggest fucking idiot on the face of the planet... you know better than anyone else that's not true."

"Do I?"

"I hate you."

"Really now?"

"Did I stutter?"

"Oh, come _on_ , how could you ever hate such a pretty face? You're lucky to have me."

"Shut up!"

"You're so mean. You'd be lost without me."

"As if. You wouldn't last five minutes if I left. You'd get your ass handed to you every single fucking day."

Kazuya makes a nasally sound, mimicking a buzzer. "Wrong."

"I could fucking strangle you _right now,_ Miyuki, don't push me _."_

 _"_ Liar, liar, too-tight baseball pants on fire," Kazuya sing songs, oblivious to the forearm crushing his windpipe.

"Too ti- you're one to talk. I see those ugly ass boxers through your pants all the fucking time. Who wears vomit-colored underwear anyway?"

"The color is _olive_ , thank you very much. Not that I'd expect a fashion disaster like you to know that."

"Yeah right. Unlike you, I wear real clothes. My underwear are white and one hundred percent normal."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were the fashion police. You act like I've never seen your impressive collection of weird t-shirts before. Your underwear probably have weird sayings scrawled across the ass. Like 'hot' or 'cool' or some other idiotic nonsense."

"Yeah? Want me to prove it?"

"Bring it on."

"Bleh, you guys are so gross sometimes," a third voice finally pipes up.

Since moving in, Kuramochi's roommate and resident ace wannabe, Sawamura Eijun, has become the latest victim of second year antics. Kuramochi never hesitates to wrestle him to the floor if the situation arises, excusing each playful kick and hold as punishment. Kazuya's "punishments," on the other hand, come in the form of words. Besides Kuramochi, Sawamura bears the brunt of Kazuya's sharp tongue.

What can he say? He thrives on other people's anger.

Quite frankly, Kazuya is surprised Sawamura hasn't left yet. Masuko fled hours ago.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Kuramochi cranes his neck over his shoulder to leer at their surprisingly cheeky underclassmen.

"You know," Sawamura gestures between Kuramochi and Kazuya, lingering on the place they're connected. "That."

Kazuya scoffs and cocks his head in Sawamura's direction. The essay can wait. "What are you even talking about? Use your words."

"Hypocrite..."

"What?"

"Nothing!" Pink dusts Sawamura's cheeks. "It's just that you guys are supposed to be pulling an 'all-nighter' because you forgot about this paper. But that makes no sense because Kuramochi-senpai just said this happens all the time, and I don't understand how you always end up doing them the night before if-"

"Yeah, yeah, just cut to the chase, Sawamoron," Kuramochi interjects, starting to look a little nervous.

Sawamura narrows his eyes suspiciously, and, for a fleeting moment, Kazuya thinks they've been caught red-handed. But caught doing what, he still has no idea.

"Well, you two seem pretty close." Both Kuramochi and Kazuya roll their eyes and Sawamura's brow furrows. "Since you're friends and all. Like... you don't have any friends besides each other."

 _We're not friends_ , Kazuya wants to scream but chooses to say nothing. He looks over at Kuramochi to gauge his reaction and finds that he can't decipher his expression.

"Anyway, when you fight, sometimes it sounds more like you're..."

The intensity in Kuramochi's gaze is enough to unsettle even Kazuya. He stares at Sawamura, merciless and unrelenting, but there's a trace of something else there. Hope, maybe. Almost like he'll pry the words straight from Sawamura's mouth if he has to.

But his actions have the opposite effect.

The fire behind his eyes clearly scares the hell out of poor Sawamura who almost trips in his haste to stand. Like a frightened mouse facing a ferocious mountain lion, he scuttles to the other side of the room.

"I-I just like seeing you two get along! For the sake of the team and everything! Good, it's really good." Sawamura's shaky fingers fasten to the door knob. "Sorry for asking stupid questions and assuming t-things. I'm going to go so I don't bother you anymore. Haruichi probably won't mind letting me spend the night in his room so, uh, yeah don't worry about me. Bye!"

Even if Kuramochi or Kazuya had wanted to try and stop him, they wouldn't have had the chance because he bolts out the door in an instant.

Heavy silence follows in the wake of Sawamura's obnoxiously loud and flustered exit. The essay rests on Kazuya's stomach, momentarily forgotten. Flickering light from the television screen bathes Kuramochi's face in soft reds and blues, while the Mortal Kombat theme continues to play, the only source of sound in the entire room, undeterred by the weight of Sawamura's sudden retreat.

 _When you fight, sometimes it sounds more like you're..._

Like they're what?

Kazuya thinks back to the context of those words. Sawamura had just been talking about how close he and Kuramochi were, about how they were each other's only friends. But that's not right. That _can't_ be right. The two of them aren't close- unless being in the same class and on the same team counted as "close."

And, more importantly, what did that have to do with fighting?

 _Sometimes it sounds more like you're…_

Then, as if a light switch has suddenly been flipped on inside his head, Kazuya knows. With almost complete certainty, he _knows_.

The banter at practice, the elbows jabbed into each other's sides, the chokehold moments earlier- Sawamura thought they were, dare Kazuya say it, and dare he even _think_ it, flirting.

Flirting.

Kazuya and Kuramochi _flirting_.

"It's getting kind of late," Kuramochi blurts, a slight edge to his voice.

Kazuya is about to reply with a smart ass remark or maybe make fun of Kuramochi for already being tired. It's always worth it to see how Kuramochi reacts, but he freezes, response dying in his throat. Either option, any way he responds… is that what Sawamura mistakes for flirting? It's not, definitely not, but Kazuya can maybe see where someone could misinterpret it as such.

Instead, he slowly sits up, instantly missing the warmth of Kuramochi's bare thigh, and nods his head in agreement. "It is," he concedes, lifting the essay off his lap.

"We should probably go to sleep. Make sure we're well-rested for morning practice."

"Yeah."

"Okay."

"Okay."

God, this is so _weird_. Kazuya hates it. He's hit with the irrational urge to laugh in Kuramochi's face, to pull his arm back around his neck, to urge him to wrestle the way he does with Sawamura.

In eerie silence, they climb to their feet. Kazuya switches his lamp to a dimmer setting, and the two march across the room, refusing to make eye contact.

They crawl under the covers, awkwardly muttering apologies under their breath as they get situated, acting as if the other doesn't exist.

Darkness seeps into every crack and crevice. The luminescence doesn't seem to extend as far as it usually does, and Kazuya finds his eyes drawn to the little hairs on the nape of Kuramochi's neck because, apparently, he loves to torture himself.

Kazuya clutches at the blanket, hoping the texture and soft slide of fabric between his fingers serves as a good enough substitute for a certain someone's hair.

 _Wow._

 _Okay, focus, Kazuya._

He needs to sort out a few things.

First, there's the whole "friends" issue. Now that Sawamura mentioned it, Kazuya can't shake it. They've never put a label on their relationship, never _had_ to, because they're teammates and classmates and, well, that's all there is to it.

End of story.

Secondly, Sawamura addressed a more pressing issue, something Kazuya's been trying to ignore for months: the projects.

Nine times. _Nine times_ they've pissed off their professor enough to earn punishment, always in the form of these essays that they _consistently_ wait to finish until the night prior. Thankfully, the bastard has the decency to maintain certain standards like a week-long time frame to work and a requirement of anywhere between four to seven pages.

Knowing the details, it's odd that both still wait until the last minute to finish. And it's even odder that, every time, Kuramochi is the one to get them in trouble. It's like a really bizarre tradition they've started and can't seem to stop.

Kazuya isn't one to jump to conclusions. The world rarely permits simple black-and-white situations, preferring more complicated and complex scenarios, just to watch people scratch their heads and slowly lose their minds when the answer doesn't materialize right away. A gray area, whether it be obvious to the outside observer or not, always underlies the truth. Something deeper, something that surfaces after a little digging around.

Recently, even now as he lays here facing the back of Kuramochi's head, Kazuya digs. And the conclusions he uncovers scares the hell out of him.

The only plausible reason for he and Kuramochi's bad habit is extremely unsettling.

 _Is it because… we enjoy this?_

 _Do I actually like spending time with this jerk? Outside of baseball?_

 _And… does he actually enjoy spending time with me, too?_

"Hey, Kuramochi?"

He's met with silence, and, at first, he worries that Kuramochi's already asleep.

"Yeah?" he eventually murmurs.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Now?"

"No, next Tuesday. Of course I mean now." Kazuya's knuckles are beginning to turn white. He has yet to let go of the blanket. "Without Sawamura here to interrupt."

"Sounds suspicious but alright. Go on."

"Well… I was thinking about what he said earlier. About all the papers and sleepovers."

"Okay. That's a strange thing to be thinking about right but whatever. What about it?"

Uncomfortable, Kazuya rolls onto his other side. He focuses on a tiny spot on the wall where the paint's beginning to chip. "He has a point. This happens all the time so why do we always wait to write the essay?"

"This again? I told you, dumbass, it's easier when we take turns working on it. The notes part is easy to do individually but not the actual paper," Kuramochi explains, softer and certainly more understanding than Kazuya expects. He's right; they _have_ discussed it before.

"Yeah, I know. What I mean is..."

"Just spit it out, you're not going to hurt my feelings. Not that you've ever worried about that before."

Kazuya wants to be in his own bed, wants to forget this conversation and to forget the rustling sheets as Kuramochi shifts, turning to face him. Those eyes are burning holes into the back of Kazuya's skull, and it's the _worst_ because no one, not even the upperclassmen, have ever made him feel this on edge, made him want to crawl out of his skin, to vehemently deny the emotional turmoil wracking his brain.

"Kuramochi… we've done this nine times now and, well, you probably don't think I've noticed but I have."

"Huh?"

"The reason we always get singled out. The reason Sensei _always_ assigns these essays. Every time, you purposely throw a note at me or maybe a pencil and, sometimes, you just turn around and 'whisper' absolute bullshit to get his attention." Kazuya hesitates to see if Kuramochi will deny the accusations but, surprisingly, he says nothing. "At first, I thought you were doing it to make sure your grades didn't slip. Bad grades are the easiest way to get your ass kicked off the baseball team. You could kiss your spot on the first-string goodbye."

"But then… when Sawamura was talking earlier, I thought about the night we talked about hobbies and the night we played video games and, hell, even the night we played a couple rounds of _truth and fucking dare_ with Sawamura. I hate to admit it- you know I hate admitting anything that might make me seem remotely human- but those nights were pretty fun."

"They were," Kuramochi finally speaks up. His voice drops lower and sounds closer, much closer. Close enough for each syllable, each exhaled word, to brush along Kazuya's neck as he breathes them.

"So I have a theory."

"A theory," Kuramochi echoes.

"Yes, a theory. About you."

Kuramochi laughs, letting loose his usual cackle, but it takes on a completely different tone in this atmosphere, warm and fond, a more controlled version of the original that only Kazuya is privy to. "Of course you have fucking 'theories' about me. I should've known."

"I'm serious." And he is.

"Fine, fine. What's your theory? I'm an even bigger dumbass than you originally thought?"

"Basically."

"Hey!"

"No, it's true." Kazuya braces himself before the confession slips past his lips. "And so am I."

Kuramochi goes quiet, and, if it weren't for the puffs of air tickling his skin, Kazuya would've worried he went too far.

"We're both idiots. Because only crazy people, only idiots, would _try_ to get punished. It's like we're masochists, like we hate ourselves, because we actually want the professor to force us to work together."

"Miyuki…"

Trembling fingers brush the hem of Kazuya's shirt. A nervous touch, hesitant, careful.

"It shouldn't be fun."

"Sure."

"We're just teammates."

"Yeah."

"And we're not even friends."

"Obviously."

"You don't even like me."

"You sure about that last one?" Kuramochi breathes, and Kazuya's aware of the firm press of someone else's chest against his back. "Big and bad Miyuki Kazuya always knows what everyone's thinking, has everyone figured out. That is, everyone except for himself. And me."

"Well, well, well. Now who's the cocky one?" A weak chuckle. "And you're wrong. I think I know you pretty well."

"If that's the case, tell me why I keep harassing you in class. Tell me why I'm the world's biggest idiot. Because I've already come to terms with it."

Kazuya inhales sharply. The fingers stop moving, rest immobile on his side, and his skin burns, aches, where they touch. He wonders when and if they'll explore further. Rather, he wants them to.

"For some reason, you want to be more than just teammates."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, and I don't know why."

Kuramochi laughs. He laughs and _laughs_ and the sound reverberates through his chest, each rise and swell breaching through Kazuya's shirt and shaking his body as if he, too, finds the admission funny. Which he certainly doesn't.

"Never thought I'd hear you say that."

"Asshole."

"But I never figured you'd understand. You're a sharp guy and everything, but, damn, you have the emotional capacity of a fucking sea cucumber. Actually, sea cucumbers probably express their feelings more than you do."

Kazuya bristles at his side.

"Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that... I like you, dumbass."

 _Wait_.

"What?"

"I like you."

"No, I heard you. I just don't... why?"

"You're _hopeless_. I have no fucking clue why I like your sorry ass, okay? But I do. Those stupid glasses and the _ridiculous_ way you wear your baseball cap and that shit-eating grin you get on your face right before you make a nasty comment. Then there's your weird as _shit_ fashion sense and the fact you suck at video games, especially first person shooters. Hell, even the way you sometimes snore in your sleep. It's annoying, all of it, but I'm a fucking _moron_ because I like it. I really do. Every single thing about you. Even your shitty personality, which I'm starting to think isn't so shitty after all."

 _Everything_.

Someone likes everything about Kazuya.

And they're not afraid to admit it.

"That doesn't sound like the friendly sort of 'like,' Kuramochi," Kazuya whispers. There's a clear quiver in his voice that's impossible to mask.

"Probably not."

"And you're okay with that?"

"Sure. It's not like I'm a saint or anything myself."

"You're not... you're a good person," Kazuya croaks.

Kuramochi lets out a little snort. "Sure, alright."

"Really, you are. Anyone who willingly goes out of their way to spend time with a mess like me has to be a good person. And no one seems to notice but... you're good. You are."

They aren't empty words. The honesty feels heavy and foreign but not in a bad way. Far from it.

"Is this... is this okay?" The fingers get bolder, sneaking beneath Kazuya's shirt, thumb tracing slow and lazy circles along his bare skin.

 _No_ , he wants to say- should probably say- but instead breathes, voice startlingly hoarse, "Yes."

It's like a gigantic dam breaks in that instant, tumbling down, crumbling into thousands of pieces as a tidal wave of sensations and urges comes bursting through the broken remains.

Kuramochi slides his palm across Kazuya's abdomen and presses fully against his back. The telltale brush of chapped lips along the junction between shoulder and neck sends a shiver down Kazuya's spine. They hover over the same spot, as if waiting for permission to go further.

Kazuya doesn't know where the sudden burst of confidence comes from, but he gladly goes along with it.

Slowly, careful to avoid something disastrous or embarrassing like squishing Kuramochi, Kazuya rolls onto his other side. Kuramochi moves with him, and, upon realizing Kazuya's intentions, grins wide and radiant, like he's just won the lottery.

Kuramochi catches his gaze. It's moments like this that Kazuya notices how kind Kuramochi is, when he's struck by how respectable and considerate. Not many people are lucky enough to see the full picture, to see the real Kuramochi Youichi hidden beneath layers of cheerful laughter and angry outbursts.

Kazuya shouldn't care about knowing a person to that extent but…

Suddenly, he's being pushed on to his back, and Kuramochi is there, right there, looming over him, but in a completely non-threatening way that has Kazuya looping his arms around the other boy's neck to draw his face closer. Kuramochi tenses a little, surprised, but relaxes seconds later, nuzzling against Kazuya's neck.

Contrary to popular belief, Kazuya knows next to nothing about sex. Or relationships. Seriously. He's kissed maybe one or two girls in the past, and both instances turned out to be fiascos, straight from the nightmares of any insecure and sexually frustrated teenage boy.

But with Kuramochi's body on top of his, he doesn't feel uncomfortable. As a matter of fact, he feels _more_ than comfortable.

He spreads his legs a bit more to let Kuramochi's torso fit more comfortably between his thighs. Their bodies fit nicely, like two puzzle pieces, and Kazuya hates how cliché it sounds, whether it's true or not.

"You're really warm," Kuramochi whispers, lips brushing the shell of Kazuya's ears. There's teeth, too, and Kazuya shudders, burying his fingers in thick hair he can now confirm as soft.

"I try."

"Jerk."

Kuramochi lifts his head and, taking his sweet time, presses kisses to Kazuya's jawline. He works his way across until he's just shy of Kazuya's lips. Both hands slide out from under his shirt and cup his face. Kuramochi slowly swipes his thumb along Kazuya's bottom lip, back and forth.

"Miyuki, can I…?"

"I can't believe someone as stubborn as you has to ask," Kazuya teases, licking his lips as Kuramochi draws his thumb away.

"First we have to get rid of these fucking glasses." Kuramochi gently slides the offending object off the bridge of Kazuya's nose, folding them just as carefully and placing the lenses on the floor beside the bed. "There."

"Have you ever kissed anyone before?" Kazuya asks, purely out of curiosity.

"No. Have you?"

"A couple girls. But they sucked. Only lasted like five seconds each."

"Yeah? So do you think you're a better kisser than me?"

"Of course," Kazuya teases. He combs his fingers through Kuramochi's hair, tugging lightly. "I'm probably a natural."

"Asshole."

Achingly slow, Kuramochi presses forward. Kazuya watches until he goes cross-eyed, lashes fluttering as they slide closed. Lips, chapped from long days in the sun, meet his.

They feel nice. _Really_ nice.

Before Kazuya can respond in kind, Kuramochi pulls away. "Was that...?"

"Awful. Just awful."

"Well, excuse me, Casanova. Sorry I couldn't live up to your standards."

"A shame, really."

"What the absolute _fu_ -"

"Looks like we'll just have to keep trying until you get better," Kazuya breathes, light and flirtatious.

Above him, Kuramochi blanches. But, bless his fucking heart, rolls with the punches. "Right. Yeah, good point."

That's all the permission he needs.

Their lips meet for a second time, and it's better, definitely better. Kazuya has the chance to kiss back, sighing into Kuramochi's mouth as he lets the warm tip of the other's tongue past the seam of his lips, licking tentatively at the roof of his mouth.

Kazuya shivers and keens as his own tongue slides along Kuramochi's, breathing in each other's gasps. He can feel Kuramochi smile against his mouth and willingly, all too willingly, gives into his anticipation as he tilts his head, searching for the perfect angle. He eventually finds it, and his entire body turns soft and pliant under Kuramochi's ministrations, letting him take control of the kiss because holy _shit_ he's athletic and muscular in all the right places. The baseball workouts have really done wonders for the guy's physique.

Strong legs and strong arms and, wow, Kazuya would be lying if he said he couldn't get enough of Kuramochi. The soft wet sounds of their lips moving together, the heat building between their undulating bodies, even the occasional nose collision that forces them to part for a second or two, snorting softly under their breath, before diving back in, enthusiastic and ecstatic.

He would gladly stay like this, wrapped up in Kuramochi, joined at the lips, for hours. _Days_.

They eventually pull apart and, sated, Kuramochi slumps against Kazuya. His even breathing calms Kazuya's thundering heartbeat, slows his pounding pulse and gradually curbs the burst of adrenaline still coursing through his veins. The comfortable silence lasts for maybe a minute or so before Kazuya decides to break it.

"So. That."

"Yeah. _That_."

Kazuya slackens his grip on Kuramochi's hair, fingers gliding down to the other's waist, savoring the warmth of cloth and heated skin. "I think you got better there near the end."

"Probably better than you. Not that it takes much."

"Doubtful. But at least we have time to practice and improve."

"Just like baseball, huh?"

"Just like baseball."

* * *

On their eighth and (come to find out later) final essay, Kuramochi and Kazuya receive their highest grade yet. It's nearly a perfect score, and Kuramochi has no qualms with flaunting it in front of his classmates' faces. Of course, they glare and say nothing, probably scheming and thinking of different ways to humiliate Kuramochi and ensure they're never stuck with random essays ever again.

Little do they know they'll get their wish soon enough.

Even after everything that's happened, the two don't completely change how they interact, at least in public. Bickering on the field, complete with insults and malicious laughter, continues to be a regular occurrence, while the rest of the team seems to come to the agreement that it's closer to friendly banter than actual fighting. Sawamura, of course, grins and flashes them knowing looks whenever he's around; until Kuramochi pulls him to the side at practice one morning and whispers something in his ear that causes him to flush and nod enthusiastically.

The next time Kuramochi spends the night at Kazuya's, he explains that he promised to make sure Sawamura would never have children in the future if he told anyone about their relationship.

Even without the projects as an excuse, they occasionally hang out, and, by nightfall, tumble into bed, joined at the lips, Kuramochi pressing Kazuya into the mattress until they both find release. Spent and exhausted, limbs still tingling pleasantly, Kuramochi curls around Kazuya and holds him close as they drift off to sleep.

Still, they don't give their relationship any sort of official label. Kuramochi might just be a _little_ in love with Kazuya, and Kazuya may feel the exact same way about Kuramochi. They're completely aware of their feelings, even if they rarely voice it. Actions speak volumes, after all.

Kuramochi lives for the moments he can point out Kazuya's weaknesses, not so secretly thrilled by the power he has over him. Kazuya, on the other hand, thrives on Kuramochi's embarrassed expression and, especially, his full body flush.

They care about each other, support each other, look out for each other- protect each other.

However, they refuse to call each other friends. It doesn't fully encompass what they share. Not even close. So, in his own way, Kazuya gets his wish. Or, he supposes, they both do.

Because they're more than that.

So much more.

Kuramochi drawls, drowsy and warm against Kazuya's neck one night, "We're Kuramochi Youichi and Miyuki Kazuya, dammit."

* * *

 **A/N:** thanks for reading and comments are always appreciated! come bother me on twit or tumblr: tobiologist


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